He lay on the floor, reluctant to move, knowing that it would hurt. He needed to prepare for his escape, however, and now was the time, before Smythe and the Guundarans were up and about.
Gritting his teeth, Mr. Sloan sat up, pulled on his boots, and managed to stagger to his feet. He had draped his uniform coat over a chair. Before putting it on, he checked the magical constructs that covered the fabric to make certain that none were broken or starting to fail.
Such a check was routine, a task every marine officer carried out daily until it became an unthinking habit, just as checking to make certain his sidearm was loaded. The task took on special significance this day. Mr. Sloan trusted he would be able to escape tonight without being seen, but he was not one to take chances.
He put on his coat and hat and quietly opened the door. He could hear the Guundarans snoring. No sound came from the office where Smythe was sleeping. Mr. Sloan softly stole past the slumbering soldiers and crept up the stairs, heading for the room directly above Smythe’s office.
He studied the floorboards and found several that were loose. He experimented and discovered he could pry up one without much effort, allowing him to listen in on the meeting Smythe would be having with the member of the Faithful.
He went back down the stairs and out the rear exit to the privies, which were located in a separate building. The privies had been constructed during Meek’s time, but they bore evidence of having been cleaned and refurbished. Mr. Sloan completed his ablutions, then went to the stables, which were a new addition, since Smythe would require mounts for himself and his officers. The stables contained a tack room and stalls for about twenty horses. Griffin stables would be located somewhere else, since they could not be near the horses, lest the griffins indulge their taste for horseflesh.
Mr. Sloan saw signs that the Faithful had prepared for the army’s imminent arrival. Someone had brought in straw, hay and oats, and fresh water; rakes and brooms for mucking out; and sponges, towels, and brushes for currying. Unfortunately, he could not find saddles, bridles, or harnesses. Unless those were delivered today, he would either have to ride bareback or walk to Sir Henry’s, which was several miles distant.
Mr. Sloan then recollected that Meek Street was not far from Market Street, a busy thoroughfare. He might be able to find a cab on Market Street, even late at night.
This settled to his satisfaction, he set to work in the stables, acting on the off chance that Smythe might have seen him enter and wonder what he was doing. Mr. Sloan fed and watered the carriage horses and he was brushing them when he saw Smythe head for the privies. The colonel stopped by the stables on his return.
Smythe regarded Mr. Sloan curiously. “I thought I heard someone. I did not expect to find you, Lieutenant. You are not a stable hand.”
“I needed the exercise, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “My muscles were so stiff, I could barely climb out of bed this morning. This is not work for me. I have liked horses since I was a boy.”
Smythe raised an eyebrow. “I require you with me, Lieutenant. You are an officer. Leave the mucking out for the Guundarans.”
The day was one of those rare days in autumn when one could imagine it was springtime. The air was warm, the sun bright. They could have entered the building through the back door, but Smythe chose to inspect the building’s exterior and they walked around the building, taking the side street that led from the back of the building to the front.
“As you know, I am expecting a visitor shortly,” Smythe said. “We will meet in the office. You will need to find two more chairs, one for our guest and one for yourself, and a small desk where you will sit to take notes.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sloan, pleased that he would not have to eavesdrop.
“I have found it advantageous when dealing with the Faithful to have the conversation recorded in writing,” Smythe continued, adding dryly, “Noble lords and ladies often suffer from convenient lapses of memory. Sir Richard and I will be discussing matters of importance, and I want a record of what is said so that there is no misunderstanding.”
So I am to meet the mysterious Sir Richard, Mr. Sloan thought. The man who is sheltering Prince Tom! If all goes as planned, Sir Richard and Smythe and Prince Tom will be in custody by tomorrow morning and this conspiracy at an end.
He located a second desk, which he placed near the front window, so that he might take advantage of the sunlight, and found additional chairs. He busied himself with other tasks and waited impatiently for the clock to strike ten.
The hour appointed for the meeting came at last. Smythe paced in front of the building to await the arrival of his guest. Mr. Sloan laid out the writing materials he would need and watched out the window.
A private carriage arrived. The carriage was well appointed and obviously belonged to someone of means, though it bore no armorial markings. Smythe descended the steps to greet his visitor. The driver opened the carriage door.
Sir Richard Wallace, brother of Sir Henry, stepped out.
Mr. Sloan stared, riveted. The shock was paralyzing and for a horrible gut-twisting moment he could not move, could not even breathe. Mr. Sloan had known Sir Richard for years.
And Sir Richard knew him.
Smythe and Sir Richard shook hands and started up the steps toward the door. They moved slowly, for Sir Richard was always mindful of his dignity and could never be hurried. He was the quintessential “Old Chap,” an eminently respectable attorney-at-law, member of the House of Nobles, and part owner of a real estate agency (Mr. Sloan remembered that with an inward groan).
Richard Wallace was dull and staid, gray and boring, and for God knew how long, he had apparently been a member of the Faithful, plotting rebellion, raising armies, and turning warehouses into barracks.
Mr. Sloan drew back from the window. He had to overcome his shock, decide what to do and he had only moments. He considered flight, but immediately discarded the idea. The office opened into the reception area and he could hear their voices at the door. He would rush out of the office only to end up in their arms.
Mr. Sloan decided to stand his ground. He had been granted a God-given opportunity to discover the secrets of the Faithful and he would not shirk his duty out of cowardly regard for his own safety. He had to pray that Sir Richard did not recognize him.
The odds were in his favor. Mr. Sloan had not seen Sir Richard Wallace in at least two years. Sir Richard was a little nearsighted and Mr. Sloan was greatly altered in appearance. His skin was tanned and weathered. He had shaved his head, grown a mustache. He was wearing a uniform, which tended to make him just another faceless soldier.
Yet, Mr. Sloan did not discount Sir Richard. He was very like his brother in some respects: cunning, clever, astute. Mr. Sloan now had proof of that. Sir Richard had for years kept his dangerous secret from a brother whose job it was to ferret out dangerous secrets.
The two men entered the reception area. Mr. Sloan could not move the desk, but he hastily shifted his chair away from the bright sunlight streaming in through the window and placed it at an end of the desk that was in shadow.
Smythe stood back to allow Sir Richard to precede him. He then made introductions.
“Sir Richard, this is Lieutenant Sloan, my second-in-command. He will be taking notes.”
Mr. Sloan knew a bad moment, fearing Sir Richard would connect “Lieutenant Sloan” with his brother’s secretary of the same name.
Sir Richard had no care for a mere lieutenant. He acknowledged the introduction with a vague, preoccupied glance and started to look away. He frowned, however. His gaze sharpened and he turned his head to regard Mr. Sloan more closely.
Mr. Sloan was sweating beneath his leather coat.
“Shut the door, Lieutenant,” Smythe said, moving to stand behind his desk. “We do not want to be disturbed. Please, my lord, be seated.”
Mr. Sloan moved with alacrity. He closed the door and then crossed to his desk. He sat down and began to busily arrange the ink bottle and sel
ect his pens, keeping his head lowered.
He heard a chair scrape behind him. Sir Richard sat down. Mr. Sloan cast a surreptitious glance at him. He was sitting with his back to him and appeared completely absorbed with his own affairs. Given that he was plotting rebellion, these affairs would hopefully be serious enough to claim his undivided attention.
“How is His Royal Highness?” Smythe was asking.
“He is well, sir,” Sir Richard replied. “Bored and restless, as one would expect of a young man forced to remain in confinement. He roams about the house like a caged lion.”
“He is a high-spirited lad, my lord,” said Smythe with a smile. “I take it, then, that you were able to convince him of the wisdom of remaining indoors. He has not met again with Masterson?”
“No, sir, thank God!” said Sir Richard. “His Highness has not met with anyone nor has he corresponded with anyone. He may be young, but he is sensible and intelligent.”
“So I have found His Highness,” Smythe agreed. “What about Masterson? Is he still in Haever? I trust you are still having him watched. Has he been in contact with your brother?”
“Not that I am aware,” Sir Richard said, his voice grating. “Henry has been out of town, or so I was informed by the Foreign Office.”
“I should like to speak myself with the agent regarding Masterson. Could you send him to me?”
“By all means,” said Sir Richard, though he sounded faintly surprised. “I will have the man report to you this afternoon. As for His Highness, he is impatient for his meeting with the queen, which was put off due to Her Majesty’s sudden need to rush off to treat a sick griffin. Folly, if you ask me.”
“Has a date and time been set for the meeting, my lord?”
“The queen returned to the palace yesterday and summoned me to see her.”
Sir Richard sat up straight, cleared his throat, and spoke slowly and solemnly, as though he were addressing the assembly in the House of Nobles.
“Her Majesty asked to meet His Highness on the twenty-eighth day in the evening, at the hour of eleven of the clock. I am to bring him to the palace.”
“That is the day after tomorrow,” said Smythe, displeased. “That does not give us much time to prepare. I have only just arrived. Why didn’t you delay?”
“Reflect, sir, upon the danger to His Highness!” said Sir Richard, shocked at the question. “Masterson knows he is here. With every day that passes, the prince may be discovered!”
“True,” said Smythe. “Well, we must make the best of it. What are the arrangements?”
“The meeting is secret, known only to myself and His Highness. She promised to tell no one, not even my brother. I am to escort His Highness into the palace through the back entrance, along a secret passage that leads to the Rose Room. We are to wait in the Rose Room until Her Majesty sends for us.”
“Where is this Rose Room, my lord?” Smythe asked. “I am not familiar with the palace. That reminds me, could you provide me with maps of the palace grounds and the interior?”
“Certainly, Colonel,” said Sir Richard. He drew out a small book and made a note. “I will send the information with the agent. The Rose Room is located on one of the upper levels. You need not worry, sir. Not even the servants will be aware we are there. Will you have troops in place by then?”
“I will have soldiers stationed nearby, ready to move onto the palace grounds the moment you give me the signal. I will place Her Majesty under arrest and my men will escort her to Offdom Tower.”
Mr. Sloan gripped the pen tightly to keep his hand from trembling, and dropped a blot of ink upon the paper.
“The other members of the Faithful and I are opposed to having the queen arrested, Colonel,” Sir Richard said stiffly. “If she names Thomas her heir, as we pray she will, we have accomplished our goal. He will be crown prince now and king upon her death. The transfer of power will be quite peaceful.”
Smythe was grim. “I have not worked all these years, built up this army, planned for a revolution only to wait years for this woman to die or our plot to be discovered. Queen Mary is known to be capricious. Only a few days ago she wanted to name her sister, Elinor, as her heir. Today she wants Prince Thomas. Next week, she could change her mind and disown him in favor of her bastard half brother Hugh!
“God is handing you and the Faithful the opportunity to achieve the goal you have been waiting to obtain for one hundred and fifty years! God is giving you the chance to restore the true and rightful king to the throne! Will you take this opportunity now or risk losing it, perhaps forever?”
Sir Richard was impressed by the argument, but not entirely convinced. “When we first made our plans to take the throne by force, I was convinced Her Majesty would insist on naming her sister. But now she is going to name Thomas … I don’t like the thought of having Her Majesty arrested! The populace would be in turmoil. And I fear His Highness will not be at all pleased.”
“You have not told him our plans, have you, my lord?” Smythe demanded in alarm.
“I have not, sir,” said Sir Richard. “The same cannot be said for the marchioness. She may be a woman of spirit, but she lacks common sense. I warned her not to reveal our plans to His Highness, but she paid me no heed. She told him several months ago that we intended to have the queen arrested and imprisoned. His Highness was furious. He informed me himself only last night that he would not be a party to such action.”
“His Highness is young and idealistic. When the time comes, he will see reason,” said Smythe. “As for the populace, they will be pleased to have Prince Tom upon the throne. The only people you will see marching in the streets will be throngs of his cheering supporters.”
Sir Richard remained troubled. Smythe eyed him grimly.
“I need to know that you and the Faithful are committed to this cause, that His Highness, Prince Thomas, has your undying loyalty and support.”
“You may be assured of that, sir,” said Sir Richard.
“Good,” said Smythe. “I will take your views and those of His Highness into consideration. Perhaps he could persuade the queen to abdicate the throne. No need for having her arrested in that instance. Our troops will be in place to assure a peaceful transistion, prevent the other heirs from causing trouble.”
Sir Richard brightened. “She might well consider abdicating. Her Majesty has not looked well for months. She could be glad to retire to tend her griffins.”
Mr. Sloan noticed Smythe’s lip curl in a faint sneer and marveled that Sir Richard could be so obtuse as to believe the colonel would ever permit the queen to remain at liberty. His brother, Sir Henry, would have seen through Smythe in an instant. He wondered if Sir Richard had considered the fact that the queen would not be the only person going to prison. Smythe could not allow Sir Henry to remain at liberty, nor members of the queen’s family such as her niece, Lady Ann, and her children.
“When are the troops from Bheldem due to arrive?” Sir Richard asked.
“Not for at least a week,” said Smythe. “I have five hundred troops within a day’s march of Haever. They are only waiting on my order.”
Sir Richard consulted his watch, then rose to his feet. “I must be going. I have scheduled a meeting with other members of the Faithful to give them the news. We will draw up a petition to the queen, urging her to abdicate.”
“You will not forget to send the agent to me about Masterson,” said Smythe.
“I will notify him prior to my meeting,” said Sir Richard.
Smythe accompanied Sir Richard to his carriage. Mr. Sloan remained at his desk, finishing his note-taking so long as the two men were within earshot. They proceeded out the front door and down the steps, then paused for a moment by the carriage door to continue the discussion.
Mr. Sloan felt stifled and he set down the pen to tug at the collar of his shirt and unbuttoned his coat.
Mr. Sloan no longer had a week to warn Sir Henry. He had until the day after tomorrow; the day when the Faithful
would avenge themselves on the queen whose ancestors had deposed King James by restoring his heir to the throne. Lex Talionis. The Day of Retribution.
Every moment was now of the essence. He could not wait for even an hour. Yet he could not simply rush off. He needed an excuse to leave so that Smythe would not be suspicious.
Mr. Sloan kept watch out the window and saw Sir Richard enter the carriage. The driver mounted the box and drove off. Smythe gazed after the carriage for a moment, deep in thought, then turned and headed back inside. Mr. Sloan completed his work on the notes. Hearing Smythe enter, he rose to face him.
“What are your orders, sir?” Mr. Sloan asked.
“I need you to deliver a message, Lieutenant,” said Smythe.
“I can leave at once,” said Mr. Sloan, trying not to sound too eager. “Who is the message for, sir?”
Smythe came to within a couple of paces of Mr. Sloan, drew a pistol, and aimed it at his breast.
“Sir Henry Wallace,” said Colonel Smythe.
He drew back the hammer. The muzzle was inches from Mr. Sloan’s breast. He had a split second before the bullet tore through his chest and pierced his heart.
Mr. Sloan struck out with his left hand, shoved the pistol to one side, away from his chest, and lunged sideways.
Smythe fired. The bullet crashed into Mr. Sloan’s rib cage as he smashed his fist into Smythe’s jaw. He fell to the floor and lay still. Mr. Sloan grabbed a chair and flung it at the window. Glass shattered. He leaped on top of the desk and jumped through the window, falling heavily onto the street below. He did not wait to see what had become of Smythe, but ran down the street toward the stables.
Adrenaline started to ebb and Mr. Sloan could now feel the pain. Every breath was agony. His shirt was wet with blood and he could both feel and hear his shattered bones grinding. But he had to keep running or die.
He expected any moment to feel another shot slam into him, but no shot came. He had put all his fear and hatred into the blow that had felled Smythe and he hoped he had put him out of the fight, at least temporarily.
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